“The Americans don’t simply want to free these spies, all this crisis is to help Carter get reelected…Carter doesn’t understand more than this. He doesn’t attach any importance to human beings…he has suffered a political defeat in the eyes of the world. This ‘humanitarian’ thinks he can mobilize the whole world into starving us. Unfortunately for Mr. Carter, his secretary of state went round but nobody took any notice of him. They all turned him down. This ‘humanitarian’ intends to expel fifty thousand of our young people for one reason or another…. Recently we heard that a judge had pronounced this to be against the law.”
Despite his promise to the hostages’ families, Carter was inching reluctantly toward military action.
The president was briefed daily on the progress of planning for the rescue mission. Despite the fact that at least a dozen of the hostages, maybe more, had been moved off the embassy compound, a fact well known enough in Iran for there to be crowds around some of the north Tehran residences where they were being held, the complex assault plan remained focused on the embassy. A ten-man squad was going to hit the Foreign Ministry to free Laingen, Tomseth, and Howland, but the other, scattered hostages were off the radar.
Delta Commander Beckwith kept adding men to his assault force; the original sixty men became seventy- five. As the number grew, so did the need for helicopters. Two more Sea Stallions were added to the mission plan and began making their way to the
Reliable intelligence remained the biggest challenge. In mid-December the CIA managed to place an agent in Tehran. It had called out of retirement an elderly World War Two–era spy of eastern European origin called “Bob,” a tall, thickset man in his sixties with leathery skin who had been living in South America. He spoke a variety of languages from that region, but not Farsi. He agreed to enter Iran as a businessman, along with two friendly Iranians, one who was sick with cancer and thus fatalistic about the risks and the other a young Iranian-American air force crewman code-named “Fred,” who had family there. They scouted out the possibilities for obtaining a warehouse and trucks—the warehouse to hide Delta Force through the long day preceding the assault, and the trucks to deliver the force from the hiding place to the embassy. Bob landed on a commercial flight at Mehrabad Airport and breezed through customs; Delta Force noted with surprise the ease of entry.
Beckwith’s concern for secrecy closed one potentially rich avenue of information. A West German special forces unit offered to let Delta place several of its men with a TV crew that was being sent to Tehran, ostensibly to report for one of that country’s television networks. The students often allowed TV crews other than American, particularly German ones, fuller access to the embassy. But Beckwith did not want the military of any foreign country involved, even a friendly one.
To solve the fuel blivit problem, it was decided that two C-130s carrying the rubber bladders inside would have to land at the first night-chopper refueling point, which meant they needed to find a patch of desert large enough, flat enough, and solid enough to support the large aircraft. The only way to make sure about the firmness of the ground—loose sand would bog down the big planes—would be to send someone into Iran to inspect the location, so plans were put in motion to send a small, daring reconnaissance group to the Iranian desert.
The president canceled his annual trip home to Georgia for the Christmas holidays in order to remain in the White House and deal with the crisis. He ordered that the lights on the White House Christmas tree be left dark.
8. The Cure Is an Airline Ticket Out of Here
On the embassy grounds, in the basement of the warehouse across a narrow hall from the Mushroom Inn, vice consul Richard Queen shared a room with warrant officer Joe Hall. The fluorescent overhead lights hummed day and night, casting enough light to be annoying when they wanted darkness but not enough to comfortably read. Nothing could be heard through the warehouse walls, and it was constantly cold and clammy.
As Christmas approached, they were let outdoors to walk in small circles in the walled courtyard of the ambassador’s residence. Hall was so moved by the fresh cold air, by the direct sunlight, the newly fallen snow, the crows circling in the blue sky overhead, that he wept, but when Queen was offered the same chance he declined. Hall was amazed that anyone would refuse an opportunity to go outside, but his roommate said that for some reason he had begun to feel woozy.
Queen experienced wide mood swings in captivity. He understood some Farsi, and he spent a lot of time eavesdropping on the guards, but he understood only about half of what was spoken and in his anxiety he tended to draw dramatic conclusions, good and bad. Once he thought he had heard two guards discussing plans to shoot all the hostages. He didn’t share the information with Hall, sparing his roommate the fright, but the prospect tormented him night and day. When the guards took away their shoes and replaced them with Iranian-made plastic sandals—with images of elephants embossed on the soles—Queen threw a fit. Hall didn’t understand why his roommate was so upset, but Queen had this image of being lined up in front of a firing squad wearing goofy plastic slippers. The day he had feared passed without incident.
When he thought he’d heard good news, Queen did share it. One day he was convinced that the guards had been discussing the purchase of plane tickets to fly the hostages home. He was sure he’d heard the airlines Alitalia and Lufthansa mentioned. He told Hall and their excitement grew.
As the day approached, Queen was counting down the hours. He woke up on the appointed morning filled with joy. As he returned from his morning wash, he whispered happily to a hostage passing him in the hall, “We’re going home!”
When he got back to the room he asked a guard, “When are they going to take us out?”
“Take you out?” said the guard. “What do you mean?”
“When are we going to be released?”
“You aren’t,” the guard said.
Queen was crushed. He spent the better part of that day motionless on his mattress, his face turned to the wall. He cursed himself for letting his hopes get so high and concluded that the guards were doing it to him on purpose. They knew he spoke some Farsi, but not a lot, and was convinced they were toying with him.
While some of the guards were petty and even cruel, others were kind, in particular a tall, slender guard with a long hook nose, mustache, and sideburns named Akbar. He dropped by and asked Queen and Hall if they would like anything from their apartments. They both made lists. Queen wrote down blue jeans, changes of underwear, his beloved, well-traveled “War Between the States” board game, a
The young vice consul wrote a letter to his parents and his brother Alex: “This past week I was hoping, praying, pleading to God so hard that I would be able to return home to you in time for Christmas, but I guess to no avail.”
Queen didn’t mention something troubling that had occurred shortly before Christmas. In the shower one day he noticed that his left arm and hand felt numb, a peculiar sensation he had never felt before. He thought it was probably because he had slept on that side and had curled his arm under his body in an awkward way. When it didn’t go away he mentioned it to Hall.
“You ever have numbness in your hand?” he asked.
“You mean like pins and needles? Like when your circulation is cut off?” said Hall.
“No, more like what you’d feel if you plunged your hand in snow and kept it there for a very long time.”
Hall thought he should ask to have it checked out.
Queen decided to wait. Maybe it would go away. He didn’t connect it with his occasional bouts of wooziness
